


Daughters

by ohrightwelldone



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Amata and LW is lightly implied, Gen, Grown Man feels threatened by Child, Mild Blood, The trauma of getting your first period, and then having to share that trauma with your best friend's homophobic and spiteful dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohrightwelldone/pseuds/ohrightwelldone
Summary: The biggest threat to Alphonse, his family, and his vault is the teary, bloody girl with a braid in her hair.
Relationships: Alphonse Almodovar & Female Lone Wanderer, Amata Almodovar & Female Lone Wanderer, James & Female Lone Wanderer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Daughters

**Author's Note:**

> I've never found a fic that goes into the relationship between the Lone Wanderer and the Overseer before, which really surprises me seeing how it had such an impact on both their lives. So I decided to write this, and make it as uncomfortable as possible (like it wasn't awkward enough, eh?). And it was super fun to write! It's just brimming with tension that (rare for Fallout) is not paternal, sexual, etc.  
> Writing from the Overseer's perspective was an interesting challenge. I feel like he needs conflict – whether it's with himself or the LW or whatever, so I tried to get that across with his thinking. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He wakes at the sound of running water.

Alphonse fills his chest with a big, hesitant breath, and forces his eyes open. He knocks over the photo on his night-table as he tries to stand. He swears, and searches blindly in the dark until his hand finally finds it. He lays it on the nightstand, turns to leave, but stops and sits the frame upright.

He peers out of his bedroom, surprised to find the lights still off. That brat Amata _insists_ on having as a friend is known for lighting the whole apartment if she needs to get up. He swears that it's the shower he hears. The pipes never creak unless there's a lot of water running.

It wouldn't make sense for James' kid to be showering at this hour. The 12-year-old nuisance is not near cleanly enough for that. Must be a lingering effect from being a product of the Wastes, he thinks, bemused. She's probably filling up water balloons to dump on Amata, or some other childish prank that he will have to make her clean up. How typical – selfishly wasting their water rations on nonsense. He had hoped forcing them to sleep in separate beds would discourage this kind of behaviour, among other things.

Without a second thought he opens the washroom door.

“What's the meaning of-”

Blood.

It's the first thing he notices.

Blood staining the seat of her nightgown. The blood that is staining the bed sheet her hands are clenching, abruptly halting in her desperate attempts to scrub it out.

Her hair is falling out of the braid he had watched Amata so lovingly make that evening. Her cheeks, red and blotchy, glimmer with fresh tears. Her body quivers with a sob, and he is unsure if she is crying from fright or embarrassment (both, he later decides). It's only the sound of running water that makes him notice she is soaking wet. The whole scene is pitiful.

“I-”

Her voice is so small and weak that Alphonse feels his heart jump.

“I'm sorry! I didn't know I would...I didn't think this would happen and when I woke up it was already...” She tries to conceal the stain by folding it away from sight. “I don't know what else to do...”

“Alright, well, just...” He takes her by the shoulders and manoeuvres her away from the shower and the wet sheet. Once the shower is shut off, he balls the sheet up, tosses it in the stall, and closes the door. “Don't worry about it. We have spare ones.”

“I'm sorry.”

He doesn't know what to say so he opts for silence. Then he remembers the nightgown.

“You can't stay in that. And you'll need to take care of...” He gestures towards her lower half, inwardly smacking himself for the stupidity of the action. “...yourself.”

The girl's ears practically glow red. She can't even bring herself to look him in the eye. “I don't have anything else to wear.”

“What happened? Why are you crying?”

Alphonse doesn't have the time to turn towards the voice when Amata runs by him and to her friend's side. James' child breaks back into tears.

“I had my - and I got it all over…” She dares to glance at Alphonse before she chokes out another sob.

“Amata, go get her father. Please.”

Amata hesitantly does as he says.

“And tell him to bring clean night clothes!”

The door grinds shut. Again, there is silence looming over their heads, threatening to suffocate them. Alphonse turns towards the child only to find her gawking. He is about to reprimand her but it hits him. Why would he let his daughter run around the Vault late at night and leave him to deal with a child who knows only too well his disdain for her and her father?

Damn it.

“Get a towel so you can sit down,” he says (commands), and no words can describe the relief he feels when the brat leaves the room. Even if it's only for a few seconds, he is able to sit and close his eyes and breathe.

She sits right beside him.

The nerve of her. The nerve of this bloody, dirty mutt that belongs _outside._

She mumbles something.

“Speak up.”

“I wish I had a mom for this kind of thing.”

He flinches. As much as he wants to distance himself from James and his child, he cannot deny that he can understand, and empathize, with their loss. His own daughter grew up without a mother. They never really talk about it. When Amata does talk about it, it's with the young girl beside him. Whether he likes it or not, she is Amata's keeper of secrets and hopes and fears.

“Yes, I imagine that would make all this...easier.”

“Moms are better with messes,” she muses aloud.

He can feel Alphonse take over the Overseer the more she speaks. “Very much so.”

She picks away at the table, an annoying habit that he, at any other time, would have barked at her for.

“When...Amata goes through it, I'll be there for her.”

“Yes, well, we'll see when the time comes.” Part of him wants to shout at her to stop worming her way between him and his daughter. It's always her that Amata runs to. Bullies, bad grades, even just feeling the absence of a mother - Amata looks to _her_.

He hates her.

Yet, he is so damn _grateful_ that he loathes her even more.

Suddenly, James appears with Amata. He frantically looks around the room until his eyes fall on his daughter. The way he melts makes Alphonse's skin crawl. “Sweetheart!”

“Dad,” she manages to get out before she's crying again, running straight into his arms. He simply rubs her back and hushes her muffled apologies and tears.

“It's okay – you have nothing to apologize for.”

Alphonse watches his daughter watch them. He swears that he sees a longing in her. It is the most unsettling thing he sees all night.

“Let's go home, honey, and get you cleaned up.” James looks to Alphonse. “Thank you for handling this. If you need anything replaced or-”

“We'll discuss it in the morning.” The Overseer creeps back. He can almost feel the dining table transform into his desk. Business as usual.

James and the girl linger for a moment before bowing their heads and walking out. The girl molds to her father's side so well Alphonse wonders if she will disappear altogether.

The girl catches his eyes with her own for a mere second, and it sends a chill right up his spine.

Amata watches them go until the door shuts. She shifts her eyes from her feet, to Alphonse, to her feet again.

“Is she still allowed to come over?”

Such fear. Such subordination. Does she even see him as anything but the Overseer anymore?

“If that is what you would like. I don't see this being a problem anymore.” He forces a smile, trying to soften his words.

Amata forces a smile right back. It never reaches her eyes.

Just like her father.

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she says, and gives him the lightest kiss on the cheek before darting into her room.

His mind nags at him about the soiled sheets and the water on the floor but Alphonse blocks it out. He rubs his face, trying to wake himself up, but it only reminds him that he needs to shave in the morning.

He finds and sits on the edge of his bed. He can't see it in the dark but he knows it's there – the framed photo of his wife and baby daughter. When everything was still planned smoothly and accordingly.

He lies on his back; even then he cannot help but think about that young girl.

The mutt. The brat. The outsider.

She will bring a great storm. He can hear it in the distance.

And he can only wait. Wait and prepare.


End file.
